


Because I Would Not Stop For Death

by Cogentranting



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Gen, Speculation, Supernatural series ending, character death but in a Supernatural way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:55:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23090581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cogentranting/pseuds/Cogentranting
Summary: As the final battle with Chuck looms closer, the Winchesters and their allies are struck by a devastating loss that will forever change them, their mission, and the fate of the world.This is my version of the ending of Supernatural, with a specific emphasis on Dean as the main character.Not so much a prediction, as an idea I wanted to explore.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Because I Would Not Stop For Death

Dean had spent his whole life traveling roads like this, stretching straight ahead into nothingness, no lights but the stars above, no sounds but the surging rock music and purr of the engine. And no one around—not people to save or monsters to fight—except, perhaps, for whatever family happened to be riding alongside him, though on this night he was alone. Normally, he found nights like these peaceful. The reverberations of the Impala’s engine felt like extensions of himself, and the open road looked like freedom. But now that feeling of peace and possibility had been replaced by an urgency that Dean could not explain. The plains around him felt raw and exposed, and some sober presentiment made him feel like playing music would shatter the tentative waiting. His foot pressed a little more insistently against the accelerator. He needed to get home.

The sound of his phone going off, startled Dean and he scrambled to answer it before a second ring could further disrupt the reverie of the night.

“Did you get it?” Sam’s haggard voice came over the line. It had been months since Chuck had turned on them and raised the monsters from their past. They’d been run ragged, chasing down rogue monsters and dodging old enemies, all the while looking for something that would help them when the other shoe inevitably dropped, and Chuck made his next move. It had taken its toll on Sam, and Dean had fought hard to find an excuse for Sam to sit this particular mission out, hoping that maybe Sam would rest. If any rest had happened, it had not been enough.

“The lead was a bust,” Dean replied. Rumors and scraps of lore had pointed to a hand of God surfacing in a small town a few hours away, and Dean had chased after it in the desperate hope that it might be something they could use against Chuck. All he had gotten for his trouble was a cursed object and some bizarre locals. “What about things there? How’s Jack?”

The one bright spot, the little piece of hope that Dean was clinging to but couldn’t really believe: Jack had been resurrected months ago, and was now fully restored to them. Soul and all. “Good,” Sam replied. “He’s worried about taking on Chuck, obviously and he’s stressed. But he’s himself again. And he’s getting stronger.”

Dean breathed a sigh of relief in spite of himself. He let the hope grow a little bigger, even as the morass of his thoughts dragged at him. He could almost feel the gun in his hand, see the look on Jack’s face as Dean had pointed it at him, with every intention of—Dean cut his thought off fighting the shame and guilt aside for the moment. Of course he and Jack had talked when he came back. There had been confessions, lots of guilt, and Jack had forgiven him, and he’d forgiven Jack for… that other thing. Dean couldn’t quite bear to name it, even in his own thoughts. Still the thought of what he’d tried to do to Jack would be added to the long list of things that Dean could never wholly forgive himself for.

He repositioned the phone on his ear. “Well good. Bout time we had a win.” He forced false optimism into his voice. “Team Free Will 2.0. Ready to save the world one last time.” He hoped that maybe a little of his manufactured hope would rub off on Sam. He never heard Sam’s reply.

The Impala’s headlights caught the shadow of something in the road and Dean slammed on the brakes. The phone fell to the floor and slid under the seat. The speeding car screeched to a halt just a few feet from the massive barrier. For a few seconds Dean leaned over the steering wheel and stared at the obstacle which blocked the road completely. Well… to say that it blocked the road wasn’t accurate. It _was_ the road. Earth and asphalt had been ripped up and formed into a wall, five feet high, several feet thick. Something about the way it was piled gave the distinct impression of having exploded upward of its own accord.

Dean shook his head. “Uh uh. Nope.” Sam’s voice could be heard faintly calling his name from the phone beneath the seat. Dean ignored it and threw the car into reverse.

An invisible force slammed into the side of the Impala. The quiet night was torn open by the protesting shriek and thunder of metal as the car briefly lifted into the air and then hit the ground, rolling once… twice… three times before coming to a rest startlingly upright.

Stars and shadows crowded Dean’s vision. There was an ache in his body that seemed to have no origin and no end. Practically on instinct, he turned the ignition key. The engine sputtered and died. Dean felt almost calm; the night’s urgency had melted away with the arrival of the threat his instincts had awaited. Here was the fight his blood so often called for. His hand found the demon knife without issue in the pitch darkness of the car, as if it were drawn by fate.

Slowly he stepped from the car, letting the door swing shut behind him as he surveyed the plain for his assailant. This was Dean Winchester to the core—bruised and bloodied, nothing but the Impala at his back, the potential of all the horrors of the night before him, only a knife in his hands, and still he wore the steadfast conviction that this fight was not his last. This was Dean, and the three approaching figures knew it well.

Not much scared Dean. He’d been hunting since well before he’d passed through puberty. Since then, he’d fought gods and angels and primordial beings, killed many of them, and mouthed off to all. But if any of those things he’d faced in all his years of hunting could make his blood run cold, it was these three walking toward him.

Abaddon. Alistair. Azazel.

“Hey fellas,” Dean called as they drew closer. “You’re looking better than the last time I saw you—you get some work done?”

Abaddon gave a terse laugh. “I wish I could say the same about you Dean. You look tired. You really should take better care of yourself. Such a waste of that pretty face. And since we’re on the subject,” she reached up and pulled the collar of her shirt down just far enough to reveal the tops of a series of thick jagged scars. Scars from where Dean had hacked at her chest with the First Blade. “You did a little work on me yourself.”

Demons didn’t scar, and every time Dean had been resurrected his old wounds and scars had been erased. This must have been a special gift from Chuck.

“Did a little work on all of us,” Alistair added, gesturing to the scars crisscrossing his face from the day Dean had tortured him. “I have to say, cosmetic surgery: not your calling.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Dean lunged forward with the demon knife, slashing Alistair’s face and sinking the blade into Abaddon’s chest in one motion, all the while internally raging at the futility of the action. A butter knife would do him just as much good against things like these. Abaddon roared in fury, while Alistair’s throat contorted with a deranged chuckle.

Azazel flicked his wrist indolently. Dean slammed backwards into the Impala. “Chill out, Kid.”

The force pressed him persistently back against the twisted metal, just hard enough to hurt. It always felt like someone was sitting on his chest—a little difficult to breathe, speaking a little too strenuous to be worth it.

“Hey Sweetheart, hold this for me,” Azazel called to Abaddon. “If you can manage. I heard that last time you had some trouble with that.” Abaddon scowled and assumed control of holding Dean in place.

Azazel sidled forward and leaned against the car next to Dean, his face a mere breath away. The smug half smile ignited something in Dean, the embers of an old rage he’d finally buried after decades of effort, now recklessly thrown into the open to be fanned into flame once more. “Ah Dean. It’s been too long. Let’s catch up.”

“Sure,” Dean snarled around the choking sensation that comes when the deepest wounds reopen. “Remember that time I shot you in the face?”

The demon gave a genuine grin even as unmistakable savagery flashed in his yellow eyes. “Never thought you had it in you kid. I mean, you told me you would do it. Back in the 70’s. Just before I killed Grandpa. But still, when you pulled that trigger, I was stunned.”

“He doesn’t have the eye for talent that I do.” Alistair winked. He had retrieved the demon knife from where it had fallen on the grass and was idly turning it over and over.

Azazel nodded thoughtfully. “It’s true. I dropped the ball. Put all my money on Sammy. From what I hear, apart from a few benders, he never really lived up to all the hype. But the things I’ve heard about _you_. Daddy’s pathetically loyal little attack dog became Alistair’s star pupil. Started the Apocalypse. Knocked the angels off their perch. Bore the Mark of Cain. And became a knight of Hell. Oh I wish I could’ve seen Dean Winchester tearing humans apart with that mark.” He pried Dean’s arm away from his side and examined the forearm. “Shame you got rid of it. Real waste.”

Alistair stalked closer. The eerie white eyes flicked from side to side, tracking some phantom thought. “You should really be thanking me, Dean.” The knife turned again and again in his hands. “I remade you. The old you never would have made it this far. Anything remarkable about you I carved into you. In a way, you owe me.” He leaned in, so close Dean could smell the decay lingering on him, and with a startling intensity he searched Dean’s gaze for something. His pallid lips curled into a smile. “You can pay some of that back now.”

This time Dean didn’t see the knife turn. It was in and out three times and the blood was beginning to warm the shirt over his lower abdomen before the pain registered. A quiet gasp was all Dean could manage.

Azazel carried on as if the violence had escaped his notice. “But of course there’s so much that you’ve done that I just can’t allow you to get away with. I had all these glorious plans about how I was going to get Hell on Earth ready and then bring back Lucifer. Then when, he finally does come back, you go and get an archangel supercharge and kill him. And even worse, there’s the horribly decent upbringing you’re giving Lucifer’s kid.”

The demon’s voice faded out slightly and as Dean’s head lolled backwards the stars swirled above him. He recognized the thing swelling up within him. That strange force that was creeping into the space left behind by his blood as it seeped into the night air. It was death. He should know. He’d died enough times. The thought of dying here made him more angry than scared. It wasn’t fair that he should have beaten these scars of the past so long ago, and that they should be thrown back at him now. But even that anger was fading quickly. The stars made his anger feel small.

Vaguely, he wondered where he would go this time. He wasn’t sure he wanted to go to Heaven. His mom and dad and Bobby were there, but there were a lot of bad memories up there—vengeful angels and the like. Besides, with God himself mad at him, it seemed pretty pointless to hope for a shot at Heaven. Alistair here was certainly a reminder of how much he wanted to avoid going back to Hell. The Empty didn’t sound much better. Purgatory wouldn’t be so bad. Hunting forever, never losing the thrill of the fight, maybe he’d even see Benny again. Not so bad at all.

Azazel wrenched his head back down, forcing him to look into yellow eyes. Hatred that strong and old is dense and it held Dean in this life a little longer. He gritted his teeth. The fight wasn’t gone from him yet. Silently, without even really forming the words in his head, Dean half-formed a prayer to Jack.

“Here’s the thing, Kid,” Azazel began, with the tone of a business negotiator. “I’d like to take my time with this. Relish the moment, make it slow. But, we’re not here just for us. I’m sure you guessed, the Big Man brought us back for a reason. He asked us to deliver a gift for you.”

He couldn’t turn his head to see where the demons produced it from, but when Azazel held up the crystal, glowing with searing white light, Dean recognized it instantly. A bomb forged from the energy of hundreds of thousands of souls, specifically for the purpose of killing the Darkness.

Abaddon laughed. “Looks like he remembers it.”

“Oh good. So I won’t have to explain what this does.” Azazel fondled the bomb carefully. “A weapon capable of killing God’s sister… makes you wonder what it’ll do to a human.”

There was no time for any sort of response. A few words of incantation and the light blazed out of the crystal into Dean’s chest. His mouth gaped, his fingernails dug at the Impala’s paint, all he saw was light, and all he could feel was heat. Then the night went cold and silent once more and he gasped, small shallow breaths, because anything deeper pulled at the ragged wound in his stomach. In the aftermath of the brilliant light, the night was blacker and all Dean could see was Azazel’s mocking yellow eyes.

“Good catching up, Kid.”

The weight lifted from his chest and Dean dropped to the ground, alone again, the twisted mass of the Impala the only sight for miles. He tried to get his legs under him but they didn’t respond. A trembling hand went to the knife wound and came away slick with blood. Cold pulled at his limbs and numbed the edges of his mind, all the while an unutterable heat was building in his chest. Building and building, with a heat that threatened to eclipse his very being, pulling the bits of himself away from each other, even as that cold, seeping nothing dragged him down and down. He couldn’t hold his hand against the flow of blood anymore and it dropped to his side. Low pulses of energy shone around him, real enough to illuminate the night. He closed his eyes and felt Baby’s cold metal against his skin.

The rustle of wings forced his eyes open. There was Jack standing on the road. But it was fear, not hope that spurred Dean. He could feel it, like a racing heartbeat, the urgent pulse of the bomb within him. The god-killing bomb. Jack took a step off the road, toward him. Dean found one last surge of adrenaline, or will power, or fatherly instinct and with all his strength shouted, “Jack, no! Get back!”

He saw it in Jack’s face as the boy sensed the energy radiating off him and realized the danger. And in relief he listened to the rustle of wings as Jack retreated. There was a shattering, blinding, rush of light and heat and energy, and the Kansas plain looked like daylight, then deadly whiteness, then madness itself. Then it was night once more and even the stars seemed dark. And there was nothing.

Jack watched the flash from a few miles away. He felt nothing. But a very different nothing than what he had experienced when he had no soul. That was a calm, cold nothing. This was a tense, fragile nothing, like a held breath. As darkness settled again he took flight and reappeared where he’d left Dean.

He thought he’d missed his mark. This was not the place he’d left. There was no swaying prairie grass. No worn asphalt. No Impala. No Dean. There was only a ringing in the air, and dirt that, on closer inspection, was not just dark but scorched black. Jack stood and felt the aura of destruction that hung about this place, absorbing to the core of his being the sense of all the things that on this night had been reduced to a shattered, stark nothing.

The phone dragged down Sam’s hand as he paced the library, willing it to ring. Dark shadows under his eyes gave his a face a haggard look, as if it had been weeks of sleeplessness, not a single night. Twelve hours had passed since Dean’s phone cut out. Twelve hours since any news.

While Sam paced, Cas sat at one of the tables, dreadfully still, his faze fixed staidly, on an indeterminable point on the wall. Sam whirled toward him, his fear suddenly made manifest as anger. “I’m going out to look for them.”

Cas held out an arm perfunctorily, playing his role in a scene that had already been rehearsed several times over the interminable hours. “You already went out looking, for hours, and you didn’t find any trace of them.”

“I can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

“You don’t even know which roads to search. Jack has wings. If anyone can find Dean, it’s him.”

A hundred memories of Dean in danger, hurt, dying, competed for attention in Sam’s mind. He opened his mouth to continue the fight or give in, he hadn’t quite decided which. Before he could muster the energy to see where his words led him, he was interrupted by the sound of wings.

Jack landed heavily, staggering slightly. The boy looked wearier than a nearly omnipotent being had any right to. Both men took a staggering half step toward him, unsure whether to rush to his aid or give him space. Even as relief at Jack’s safety calmed a flurry of fears in Sam’s mind, he was searching the empty space behind Jack, as if believing that Dean would suddenly materialize.

Jack’s shattered stare held their questions at bay. The bunker itself held a trembling breath. Ghosts of memories peered in through the doorways, waiting for an answer to an unasked question.

When he could stand it no longer, Sam broke the silence, his voice uncharacteristically small. “Did you find him.”

“There were demons… and I thought I got there in time… Dean told me to run and I- I… there was an explosion like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

Cas chose his words like picking through shards of broken glass. “Jack, what kind of explosion?”

Asking that question was easier. Focus on the trees, don’t look at the forest. Not yet.

Jack seemed lost for a moment. “There was this energy… it felt like” he searched his memory trying to pinpoint the memory that itched in the back of his mind. “Like the energy from my soul I used to kill Michael.”

Cas’s gaze darkened at some thought that accosted him, but Sam had reached his breaking point. “But Dean. Jack, where’s Dean?”

Jack looked up, eyes wide, as if asking for Sam’s forgiveness. “He’s gone.”

“Then bring him back. Like you brought Cas back.”

“I tried. But it was like with Mary-” Jack choked on the words and the memory and Sam flinched a little. Jack cleared his throat and started again. “It was like with Mary. There was nothing left. Nothing I could do. After the explosion… even the Impala was just gone.”

Sam sagged against the wall. Empty space opened below him and he could feel it sucking him down, down, further down into the great vacuum of everyone he’d lost. There’d always been so much loss in his life. From his mother, to the friends left behind by a life on the road, to Jess, his father, Bobby… But no loss ever ached quite like the prospect of life without Dean. It was like asking him to live without the ground beneath his feet.

The look of a caged animal came into Sam’s eyes. “I need to see him. Take me to Heaven.” He’d lived without Dean before. And every time something took Dean away, it left him changed. Sometimes incomplete, or twisted, or broken, sometimes not. But always changed. And maybe he could do it this time, now that he had Cas and Jack and Eileen, and if Dean were in Heaven with Mom and Dad and Bobby… If he could just talk to Dean and _know._ Then maybe he could know what to do.

But Jack shook his head, a little fearfully, a little desperately, like a child overwhelmed by what they didn’t understand. “He’s not there.”

“Then take me to Hell!” Sam roared, with more anger than he’d intended.

Jack didn’t flinch away. He understood the desperation gripping Sam. He’d felt it himself hours earlier when he found that he couldn’t bring Dean back, and had formed the exact same plan that now burned wildly through Sam, and likely Cas as well. In vain. “He’s not there either.” His voice had become softer, like a parent soothing a child.

Panic spun Sam’s heart. “What do you mean? Where is he?”

Jack shook his head. “I searched everywhere. Heaven, Hell, Purgatory. I searched and I tried to get answers from every angel and demon and monster that I met but he’s not there. I don’t… I don’t know where Dean’s soul is. Maybe the Empty but I can’t get there. Not on my own.”

“No. I don’t think he’s in the Empty.” Cas’s voice was low and filled with trepidation. Neither Jack nor Sam dared prompt him to continue. He did anyway. “The way Jack described the energy, as being like the magic from his soul… Sam, I think the soul bomb killed Dean.”

“The one Rowena and Billie helped us make?”

Cas nodded. “Or one like it. The thing is, that bomb was designed to kill the Darkness. To kill something on the level of God himself. If that’s what killed Dean…” His voice trailed off.

For a moment the trio felt the cold expanse of the empty bunker press down on them with a menacing, aching, loneliness. Finally Cas, collected himself and pronounced his judgment.

“I don’t think Dean’s soul is in Heaven or Hell, because I think it was completely destroyed.”

Loss affects everyone differently. In the days and weeks and months following Dean’s death this was especially true.

To Jack it gave a hard edge. There was an anger and fierceness about him so like that of the Winchesters who had known so much loss themselves. It pushed Jack to reckless, relentless fervor. He tried tracking down the demons that had killed Dean, but to no avail. In the meantime, he prepared for the fight that they all knew must come, stretching and expanding the limits of his powers. And as he did so, he practiced his hunting skills as well, tracking down ghosts and demons and gaining for himself a reputation as a hunter of such prowess that he could only have been a Winchester. Which makes sense. After all, it was avenging the death of a parent which first drove Sam and Dean as well.

To Castiel, loss brought weariness. Dean had been his first real link to humanity and with Dean gone he couldn’t help feeling that humanity itself was just _less_. He kept on, same as before, but shadows dragged down his eyes and hope’s light was a weak flicker. Even Jack’s growing power and passion could not quite reawaken in him any faith in victory. But for Sam and Jack he persevered. He’d rather fade away, slowly dragged through Hell, than let them down. He kept a watchful eye over Jack, paralyzed by the thought of such another loss, and spent his days in dogged pursuit of some secret bit of lore which might provide them with a new weapon.

To Sam, loss gave instability. A part of him had died and with it had gone his balance. He teetered erratically on the verge of a thousand states of being. Each day might bring a new version of himself. Would he be the lost little boy looking for his brother? Or the cold, driven machine seeking revenge? Some days he was rock and leader, others he seemed to be awkwardly shaping himself to fill Dean’s shoes. No matter how hard he strove he could not find his footing. A fatalism sunk deep into Sam’s heart and quietly he despaired of ever feeling truly whole again. But there was a fear too. A fear that if he gave in to that despair then Dean’s death would be in vain and everything he had left would collapse around his head. He would not press this train of thought too far, so mostly he didn’t think beyond the here and now, the tasks he set himself when he had mustered the strength to do so. Introspection made him feel he might shatter. The future was a dark void, the past an open wound. So sometimes he lead the charge, sometimes he trailed behind Cas and Jack, but always he kept his eyes locked on that Sisyphean task before them.

And thus the three trekked forward, gingerly navigating the shadows and haunted spaces that Dean’s absence left in their lives.

_If long ago, before he had the privilege of knowing death like an old song, you’d asked Dean what he thought dying and going to the afterlife felt like, he likely would have guessed that it was like losing consciousness and waking up again. Now, some 12 or 13 years after his first death, Dean knew differently. He was all too bleakly aware that death felt irrefutably and indescribably Other. So it was that from the moment Dean opened his eyes, he was under no illusion that he had somehow been saved. He knew with absolute certainty that he was dead._

_He found himself sitting in a black office chair, a little too small for comfort, with an empty table in front of him. Beyond that were bookcases, stretching high above his head, and far beyond what he could see in either direction, each one labeled with a letter and bearing endless stacks of nearly identical thin black books. His feet squeaked against the starkly polished black floors as he scrambled to his feet, uncertain whether he should still expect to face enemies. Almost as quickly he relaxed. He’d been here before, two years ago. This was Death’s library. Nearly the same instant as his realization, Billie emerged from one of the many corridors of shelves. Dean thought he detected an even more severe look on her face than usual. However, four years hadn’t been quite enough time for Dean to begin to decipher her enigmatic expressions._

_“Hello Dean.”_

_He gave a curt nod and shifted his feet, waiting for her to speak. She did not. “What am I doing here Billie?”_

_“You’d rather be in Heaven or Hell?”_

_“Do I get a choice? You open a new afterlife travel agency- choose your destination? Or have we come back around to that promise you made Sam. That you’re going to throw us into the Empty when we die.”_

_“Tempting as that may be sometimes, no. I thought I’d been pretty clear that we’re past that. ‘Larger picture’ and all that.”_

_“Right, right. New job, new outlook. I remember.” Dean was relaxing, gaining confidence. One might even have called him hopeful. Surely just being here was a good sign. And hadn’t Billie, after all, been an ally to them more often than not? “So uh,” he clapped his hands together. “If you’re not gonna turn me over to the angels or the demons, and you’re not gonna drop me in the Empty, can we just skip through this little pep talk or lecture or whatever you have planned and get me back down to Earth?”_

_“I never said I was sending you back.”_

_“So what am I doing here?” He barked impatiently. As confidence in his own situation had grown, the thought of Azazel in the Bunker had crept its way into his mind, along with thoughts of the revenge Alistair might want for the man who’d killed him._

_“You’re here because you and I need to have a talk.”_

_“Great let’s get this heart to heart over with. Sooner the better. I need to get back to warn Sam about what’s coming.”_

_Billie came closer, impatience mixed with an uncharacteristic note of sympathy in her eyes. “You’re misunderstanding me, Dean. I’m not sending you back at all.”_

_Dean jerked his chin up and squared his shoulders. “I need to go back there. Sam, Cas, and Jack, they need me. They need to know who’s coming for them. And Chuck- Chuck needs to be stopped.”_

_“And you’re the one who’s going to stop him? Dean Winchester with a can-do attitude and handgun is going to stop God?”_

_“I’m going to try! And Sam and them, they need all the help they can get. I thought you were on our side in all of this! You’re the one who brought Jack back. You’re the one who backed us. You’re pulling out now!? You do one thing and after that you’re just ready to throw in the towel? To run and let Chuck have his way?”_

_Billie’s eyes narrowed. “You should watch what you say. You might come to regret it.”_

_Dean jabbed a finger in Billie’s direction. “ **You** said that Sam and I were important. **You** said that we had work to do.” _

_“Argue all you like Dean. But I couldn’t send you back even if I wanted to.”_

_Dean scoffed. “You’re Death. You’ve done it before, and more. The Old Death even pulled Sam’s soul out of the Cage.”_

_“Circumstances have changed."_

Despite the endless hours spent in anticipation, the end caught them unawares, though not unprepared. It had been a long time since they believed they’d find any weapon to help them fight Chuck, but recently they’d begun to suspect that Jack was as strong as he would get (at least within Sam’s lifetime). So for some time they had been waiting, in anxious tension for the day when Chuck would make his move.

As for Chuck, he loved his parallels. So exactly ten years after Michael and Lucifer took their fighting stance in that very spot, Cas, Sam, and Jack found themselves standing on the dry dead grass of Stull Cemetery.

Storm clouds had rolled in, casting a pall over the stark field, and a few cracks of lightning tore the sky because, of course, Chuck had a flair for the dramatic. And this _was_ Chuck’s doing—all of it. The field in Kansas, the fate of the world, the battle lines drawn. Team Free Will was down a man and felt it as if missing a limb. They’d debated whether or not to bring in backup—Jodie, Donna, Bobby, Eileen, whatever others they could find—but in the end all the arguments of who to involve and what good it would do were pointless; Chuck decided for them that it should be they three standing alone. It could be said that it was a mercy that Chuck brought so few to stand on his own side. Certainly, he could have raised a host of angels, demons, and monsters to back him. Instead he’d brought with him only Alistair, Abaddon, and Azazel, neglecting entirely the angels he seemed to have grown bored of long ago, in favor of an all-star grudge match. Still, Sam hadn’t been fooled into thinking the odds were any more favorable to them. And within the first minute of the fight, his judgment was proved right, as very quickly their best laid plans unraveled.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl and Sam watched as if in slow motion. Abaddon and Alistair were toying with Cas, who was bloodied and bruised. They circled like jackals as he desperately gripped his blade. Further away, Chuck had Jack in a similar position. Jack’s eyes glowed and he flung out an arm, but whatever he had attempted was nullified by Chuck, though not without effort. Jack looked tired and scared and every inch of Sam wanted to run and rescue the boy, as impossible as that might be.

Azazel wrapped a hand around Sam’s throat and lifted him from the ground. Sam made a desperate stab with the angel blade, but the demon caught his hand and flicked the weapon away. Sam struggled to draw in a breath. It was rare that Sam felt small, but staring into those yellow eyes he felt like a kid. A kid who’d grown up hunting and thought he knew everything there was to know about monsters. A kid who only really realized how out of his depth he was the first time he stared into those same yellow eyes. And just like when he was scared as a child, in that moment, all Sam wanted was his brother.

It was as if Azazel had read his mind. He grinned. “Oh, we’ve come a long way, Sammy. You and me, we were the start. And now we’re gonna be the end. I killed Grandpa. I killed Mommy. I killed Daddy. I killed Dean.” He paused for a moment to watch the rage and pain in Sam’s eyes. “And now, I’m gonna kill you, and put an end to the Winchester’s once and for all.”

He flung Sam to the ground, where he lay gasping for air. He wanted to stand, to fight back, but his body wasn’t listening to him. Before he could recover, Azazel clenched his fist and Sam felt knives in his gut. He heard the cries of pain and fear from Cas and Jack as they fought their losing battle, and he felt the cold weight of helplessness. The yellow gaze bored into his head. Sam closed his eyes. Desperately, illogically, he thought, “if only Dean had been here, we might have made it.”

An engine roared a heraldic cry. A sound as familiar as a friend’s voice. Across the field the two sides froze. The gleaming black Impala surged over the hill, like it had 10 years before. It looked like new. Not a dent. Not a scratch. No trace of the explosion which had destroyed it. It rolled gracefully toward the stunned combatants. In shock, they waited.

The door opened. The field was hushed, but from the car rolled the exultant chords of a rock song. He stepped out slowly, calmly. A silhouette against the raucous music. He was dressed in a suit, every inch of it jet black, perfectly tailored. On his finger he wore a ring with a white stone, and he casually twisted it, as if from old habit. He stood and surveyed the field as they all watched him.

Sam propped himself up on one elbow and cried, breathless with joy, “Dean, you’re alive!”

Dean turned and caught his brother’s eye. He gave a wry smile. “Not exactly.” He held out his hand, and in it, there materialized a tall, rugged scythe.

_“Circumstances have changed.”_

_“What is that supposed to mean? Why can’t you send me back?”_

_“Sit down, Dean there’s a lot to go over.” Sulkily, Dean lowered himself back into the same chair he’d woken in moments before. Billie hesitated just a moment. “You’re right Dean. You are important. But not in the way you thought. Your role is no longer as a hunter.”_

_“As what then?”_

_“As Death.”_

_The anger that had been churning in Dean’s mind was snuffed out by the wave of shock and confusion. His mouth opened but he couldn’t make any words come out. Billie watched him gape, the gears of his mind practically visible. When it seemed that his eyes were focusing on her again, she continued._

_“There are rules to everything Dean. Consequences and reactions that run deeper than any power you’ve seen. And one of those rules is this: if you kill Death, you become the next Death when you die.”_

_Dean floundered and found one idea to grasp on to. “But you’re Death. You said, when Death dies, the next reaper to die gets the job.”_

_Billie shrugged. “That was all you needed to know at the time. Think of me as an interim position. Five years is a long time to wait for a new cosmic power, and it could have been much longer.”_

_“This is crazy. I’m not Death! I can’t be. I’m not—I’m not-“_

_“The signs have been there for a long time. Much longer than five years.”_

_“So what you’re saying it was my- my destiny?” Dean scoffed, repelled by the thought._

_“You might call it that. You’ve always had, shall we say, an interesting relationship with death.”_

_Dean started to protest but Billie cut him off with a wave of her hand. “From the time you were a child, you were surrounded by death. Your mother. The cases your father worked, the monsters you hunted. All the people you’ve lost since then.”_

_“That doesn’t mean anything. That’s the gig. The life. Ask any Hunter.”_

_“That’s because it’s only one piece in the puzzle, Dean. You’ve known death like no one else has. You know you should’ve died when you were 26? You were electrocuted, your heart damaged-“_

_“I remember. But I was healed. So?”_

_“You were healed, **by a reaper**. How many people do you think can say the same? That they were given life by an agent of death.” _

_“That preacher used the reaper to heal a lot of people.”_

_“Like I said, pieces of the puzzle. How many of those same people were supposed to die again later that year, killed by a powerful demon, but came back?” She went on before Dean could respond. “And then how many of them, would come back and work to save Reapers a few years later?”_

_Frustration bubbled in Dean’s chest as a hundred half-spun arguments about why none of that meant anything froze on the tip of his tongue._

_But Billie pressed on without regard for him. “But that’s all small compared to the fact that you have died more times than anyone else. Everyone in your orbit picks that up a little bit. Sam, Cas, Jack, your mom… But no one matches your record. Gabriel saw to that with his little Mystery Spot game.”_

_“Yeah but those weren’t real-“_

_“Between Gabriel and the other angels and all their meddling, you’ve died a lot of times that you can’t remember, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t happen. And it means that you have the very rare distinction of having been sent to Heaven, Hell and Purgatory.”_

_Billie sat down on the edge of the table in front of Dean. Making him understand the full extent of his role in all this was so very, very important. “But all those are just precursors, Dean. Little warning signs. The old Death knew what they meant. That’s why he found it all so amusing. That’s why he let you summon him so many times. That’s why he trusted you with his ring when you first fought Lucifer.”_

_“If he knew, why wouldn’t he do something to stop it? Why would he **hand me** his scythe?” _

_“That larger picture I’ve talked about. It was always your destiny.”_

_Dean rolled his eyes. “I am so tired of people telling me all these things that I’m supposed to do.”_

_“There have been a lot of prophecies about you, Dean. Most have come true. But there’s a difference between prophecies that someone tries to make happen by taking away your choices, and a fate that you are destined for, that can be predicted, just because of the very nature of who you are. No one forced you to do these things. The choices you made brought you here.”_

_“Well what if I don’t want it? What if I choose not to be Death?”_

_“You already are. The moment you died, you became Death. And there’s no going back, no being human again. If you want, you can choose not to do the job. But you’ve seen what happens when Death doesn’t do what he’s supposed to. That’s why the old Death gave you his ring for the day all those years ago. It was your apprenticeship. To make sure that when the time came, you’d do the job right.”_

_Billie’s voice had become uncharacteristically gentle, but now she straightened up, severe once more. “But there’s more to it than that. More you have to understand.”_

_Dean sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Well let’s get through it.”_

_“You set everything in motion 5 years ago when you killed Death. That’s when everything changed and all this went from being destiny to a reality. And you don’t understand the extent of the change that happened when it did. Before you were dealing with ancient and powerful things—Lilith, the archangels, the Mark of Cain—but that action brought the cosmic into play.”_

_“I killed Death, and that’s when Chuck and Amara showed up.”_

_"Exactly. And that’s why you and Amara shared a connection.”_

_"Amara’s connection to me was because I had had the Mark.”_

_“Lucifer also once had the Mark, and it didn’t stop Amara from torturing him, now did it? No, she didn’t realize it, but she was drawn to you because Darkness and Death are connected. But right now it’s Chuck’s role in this that matters. Amara didn’t realize the significance of what you’d done. But Chuck did. And since then you’ve had a target on your back. I only learned that recently, or I would have warned you.”_

_“A target? If Chuck wanted me dead he could kill me whenever he wanted.”_

_“That’s just it. He didn’t want you dead. Because he wanted to prevent you from becoming Death, and there are only a few ways to make that happen.  
When you trapped Michael, I brought you a book saying that the only way to stop Michael from destroying this world was to go into the Malak box.”_

_Dean nodded. “But I didn’t and the world is still standing. The book was wrong.”_

_“Because Chuck put it there, to manipulate you.”_

_“Because if I had gotten into the box, I would have spent an eternity trapped and possessed by Michael.”_

_“You would never die, and never become Death. And that wasn’t his only attempt to stop you. The Equalizer gun. A weapon powerful enough to kill a being like Chuck, or Amara, or even Jack, is so strong that if used on a human, it would obliterate their soul. If you had used the gun on Jack, you wouldn’t just have died. You would have been so completely destroyed that you could not become Death. The soul bomb you planned to use against Amara would have done the same thing.”_

_“But Chuck’s the one who took that out, if he wanted me destroyed why would he do that?”_

_Billie shrugged. “I’m not sure. Maybe that one wasn’t planned, and he hadn’t figured out what you were yet. Maybe he was feeling confident and was afraid of turning Amara against him again.”_

_Dean scowled. “But when I died, just now, it was the soul bomb. If that’s true I shouldn’t be here.”_

_Billie looked smug. “The soul bomb didn’t kill you. Lucky for us, Alistair was a little overzealous with that knife of yours. It probably wouldn’t have killed you first, except that I exploited a loophole and reaped you, just a little bit early. Tricky timing, pulling that off. You’re welcome.”_

_“Why does all this matter so much to him? What difference does it make?”_

_“Because, that first time you talked to him, Death told you something else. Something very important.”_

_The realization rolled over Dean like a thunderstorm. “He told me one day he’d reap God.”_

_“Which wasn’t exactly true. Death will do it, but not him. You Dean. You will reap God.”_

The music shut off, leaving only the creak of the car door swinging shut. The demons fell back a few steps, unconsciously withdrawing from the aura of death which hung on Dean like the scent of a familiar place—from Dean it wasn’t ominous or evil, just potent, and quiet, and still. Chuck fidgeted, seeming as unsure of himself as his persona when they’d first met, when he’d been just a writer. And Dean… Dean fixed a cufflink, and then met the stares with a self-assured smile and lifted eyebrows.

The world bent around him like the tense crackle of dry air before an impending storm. Even as they recognized him, his friends realized that Dean was changed.

When he was younger Dean had worn authority the way he’d worn his father’s old leather jacket. As he’d grown into it, that same authority had been announced and demanded with every set jaw, every dark eye, every sharp word, as over and over again the world tried to deny him his due. But there could be no denying now. No question of Dean proving and reproving himself endlessly. Now authority sat naturally in the curve of his smile and the fire of his eyes. Now it draped his shoulders like a cloak and adorned his head like a crown. Now he held his head high like a king. Sam almost could have mistaken him for Michael, but the light in his smile, paired with the anger in his eyes—that was unmistakably Dean. For the first time, Sam truly understood the reason why his brother was the true vessel to the Prince of the Host.

Still, Sam knew Dean like his own breath and felt his presence like the beat of his own heart. So he felt deep in his soul the rightness of having his brother back and by his side. And though the man before him was indisputably different than anything he’d ever known his brother to be, in an odd way it was as if Dean was more himself than ever before.

“No. No no no no.” Chuck shook his head, a smile beginning to form. “This can’t be real. This is some sort of trick. You can’t be here. Dean can’t be here. I made sure of it. He’s gone.”

Dean shrugged and gave his scythe a twirl. “Well, I don’t want to point any fingers but…” he pulled a face and jerked his head in the direction of the demon trio. “You know what they say about good help.”

Rage and a trace of fear crossed Abaddon’s face. “That bomb-“

“Didn’t kill me. I died of a knife wound.”

The demons shifted uneasily, fully aware of the repercussions of that statement. Chuck’s eyes turned to steel, but he made no move. He only watched and waited for his enemy to make a move.

Sam scrambled to his feet as Dean strolled closer. Dean came alongside him. His eyes never left Chuck, but his voice dropped low and soft, no longer a king, but a boy checking on his kid brother. “You alright, Sammy?”

Sam nodded, a little breathless, a little overwhelmed by the sight of the brother he thought was gone. Dean nodded, at the same time checking in with both Cas and Jack via quick glances in each of their directions. “You’re gonna need something that can actually kill a Prince of Hell. Give me your blade.”

Sam held up the blade and Dean laid a hand on the silver metal. Instantly the blade turned stark black. “One kill,” Dean warned under his breath, already starting to move away from Sam. He circled around the edge of the field to where Cas was. Abaddon and Alistair had backed a few paces away, unwilling to move against the unexpected new enemy until a signal was given. Dean silently tapped Castiel’s weapon, turning it black as well. Unlike Sam, Cas could feel the grim import of the newly empowered weapon and suppressed a shudder. A weapon blessed by Death himself.

Dean had stopped his circling a few steps away from Cas, between his friend and the demons, directly across from Chuck. Tension crackled in the air, wrapping fingers around throats, and holding limbs locked in place. Like feral dogs they waited, hackles raised, teeth bared, legs stiff, but frozen in the moment before attack, each waiting for their respective alpha to make a move.

Chuck laughed bitterly. As Dean had set the stage, he’d been furiously trying to work out where his precautionary measures had gone astray. His hands went to his pockets and he bobbed his head. “This is Billie, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Just like the kid being back was Billie.”

“Turns out, Billie knows how to play the game pretty well.”

Chuck was growing huffy and agitated. “Let me guess, she told you some story about how this is your destiny. Become Death, reap me, yada yada yada.”

“That’s about the shape of it.”

“But you know that’s not how it works, Dean. I’m the author. Fate, destiny… they’re what I say they are. Every step you’ve taken, your entire life, has been because it’s the story I want for you. You really think Billie knows more than I do?”

“I think a soul bomb is a bit of an extreme way to try to kill one high school dropout armed with just a couple guns and a magic knife. I think that the old Death did a lot of things which didn’t make sense, but are starting to look like he knew a lot more than he let on. I think you looked real surprised, and real unhappy to see me get out of that car. I mean, it looks a whole lot like, you didn’t want me to be Death, but here I am. I’m Death. So yeah, I think maybe, you don’t get all the say in how this plays out.” 

“You’ve always been good at talking big, Dean. And you’ve got the look down—the suit, the ring, the scythe. But we both know that deep down, nothing’s changed. You’re still just that same kid, too scared of losing his family to realize that he’s fighting a battle he can never win.”

Dean looked thoughtful, and for a moment his eyes strayed toward Sam. “Yeah. I am the same. Now let’s end this thing.”

They struck as branches of forked lightning. An explosion of violence and long-brewing hatred. Jack threw himself at Chuck before he could make any sort of move toward Dean, and Chuck’s attention and power were forced back onto his grandson. Azazel and Sam were at each other’s throats once more, each feeling a compulsive urge towards the resolution of that decades-long conflict between them. Abaddon’s move toward Cas was shadowed a moment later by Alistair, who no doubt hoped to see the enchanted blade’s single kill spent on the Knight before he made his play. But he had gone no more than a step when Dean appeared between him and the duel.

Dean closed the space between them and took pleasure in the demon’s reluctant retreat. Even something as old and as powerful as Alistair feared Death. Dean leaned in close, decades of anger broiling storm clouds in his eyes. Alistair sneered in the face of his former apprentice, but it was the bared teeth of a trapped animal. Dean’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “You were right. I do owe you. Let me pay you back.”

It was quick. Not the long, artfully orchestrated revenge he’d once dreamed of, but a contemptuous swatting of a fly. His ringed hand grabbed Alistair’s bare wrist, there was short sputter of light, and the demon was dead.

Cas’s attacks were revitalized. He matched Abaddon’s fury blow for blow. In every movement his long history as a soldier and a warrior were evident. More terrifying by far was the zealous conviction which had led him, for good or evil, so often before, all of it now bearing down on Abaddon. A knight of Hell, a soldier of Heaven, and a fearsome battle. But at last Cas’s blade found its mark and Abaddon died, frozen in the twisted fury which had defined her.

Sam’s struggle with Azazel was shorter. Sam was thrown but regained his feet in an instant, charging Azazel. No fatigue touched him. The hunt for that demon had defined his childhood and cast a pall over his adulthood. And now at the end Sam had no space left in him for any more words or mercy in that story. He simply ended it. When the knife drove home, Sam watched the yellow fade from the eyes with mute satisfaction.

But Dean saw little of either fight. The full weight of his attention lay on the fight in front of him.

Winds whipped up, creating a swirling vortex of clouds far above the heads of Chuck and Jack. Cas and Sam staggered in the maelstrom but it did little to touch Dean. He passed through it as through a mist. Bolts of lightning shot down from the sky, striking Jack, but with a ragged war cry and a flick of his hand, they vanished. His eyes glowed a brilliant gold and Chuck staggered as Jack thrust his hand forward. In that same moment, Dean pointed and at his insistence a chain appeared, invisible save for a colorless distortion where the light struck it, binding Chuck’s arm to the ground. Jack launched another attack and with a gesture Dean manifested another chain, binding Chuck’s other arm.

Slowly the chains pulled tighter, forcing Chuck to his knees. Still the torrent raged around them and both Dean and Jack bore the signs of strain. Sweat streaked Jack’s brow, and Dean’s hand trembled slightly as he held it, both of them breathed heavily. There was a blink and everything went quiet for the three of them. The storm formed around them like a wall, grey and swirling, pulsing with bursts of lightning, impossible to see through, yet silent, as if they had been sealed away from the rest of the world. When he spoke, Chuck’s voice was deceptively calm.

“You can’t do this, Dean. You know you can’t.”

“People have been telling me what I can’t do my whole life, and I always seem to be proving them wrong.”

“Even if you win, even if you do kill me, what then?”

“Sam and Cas go back to their lives, Jack takes over running things up above, and we finally start to fix this world you broke.”

“You really think that’s how this is gonna go?”

Before Dean or Jack could reply the wall of storm behind Chuck cleared, like a window or a projection, revealing a view of Sam and Cas, both crying out in agony though the sound did not reach inside the vortex. Blood ran from their mouths and they dropped to the ground, the grass beneath them staining red. Dean pried his eyes away from the grisly scene, unsure whether it was real or not.

“I end you and that ends.”

“It won’t be any better Dean. The world will still be broken. There will still be monsters, and evil and people making all the worst choices. Except, without me wanting a good story, who’s to say that the good guy wins sometimes? And what keeps you from your destiny? Sooner or later, your fate will catch up with you.”

All around Dean the storm lit up with images from his past. Sam’s body dropping into his arms in the ghost town at Cold Oak. Sam shot in the chest by Walt. Sam dragged away by a nest of vamps in the other universe. Sam half dead from enduring the Trials. Sam falling into the Cage. Sam shot. Sam stabbed. Sam clawed, and bitten, and bludgeoned. And flashing by among all of these were dozens of what he could only assume were alternate visions of the future-- each one of Sam dying. Some bloody, some desperate, some drenched in fear. In each one, Dean standing over the twisted, broken body of his brother, his own eyes empty of humanity. Echoing over it all were a dozen different voices from Dean’s past, each repeating some variant of the same prophecy: you’ll have to kill Sam.

Chuck spoke again, softly. “You’ll kill Sam. Jack will kill Cas. And your humanity will die with them and then the two of you will be alone. For eternity. But it doesn’t have to be that way. I can prevent that. I can change your fates. Let you two live the life you want with your family. I’m the only one who can change that.”

A note in his plea startled Dean from his stupor. He looked down at Chuck and thought how small he looked. Dean readjusted his hold on Chuck’s chains and took a half step closer, leaning in almost imperceptibly. He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes.

“You know, Chuck… I’ve been a hunter long enough to recognize a demon deal when I hear it.”

The feigned sympathy and mercy vanished from Chuck’s eyes, replaced by hate and fear.

Dean straightened up. His hold on Chuck’s chains was stronger now. His voice was bolder. “Maybe I do have a destiny. But if it it’s there, it is what it is because of who I am, and the choices I make. And I believe in who I am.”

With a sweeping motion of the arm, Dean summoned his scythe. For one moment more he hesitated. “Fate’s a funny thing. Maybe it will come true. I’ll be with Sam until the end. Maybe my fate is that one day I’ll reap him. Seems likely. After all, I am Death. Sooner or later, everyone dies at my hands. Even you.”

At Dean’s nod, Jack let loose a primal scream. A wave of golden energy burst from the boy’s outstretched arms. The wave collided with Chuck in the precise instant that Dean’s scythe pierced his chest. Light exploded throughout the ragged little Kansas cemetery, bringing down the wall of storm, spinning a blinding tapestry explosion of stark white and brilliant gold, with a black core. And then there was quiet.

They filled the bunker with people. Eileen and Jody and Donna and the girls and Bobby and Charlie and Garth and a dozen others, young and old. And they celebrated. Food, drinks, music, laughter, and a sense of victory more complete than anything they had known before.

Amid the old friends, Jack mingled as easily as he ever had. There was something sweet and simple and kind about the boy’s companionship that no amount of power could change. He was friend and son and younger brother to all of them despite his recent deification. All their eyes shone with pride as he recounted his ultimate battle. All of them knew, but none of them truly grasped what it meant for Jack. How could they comprehend trading jokes with the new ruler of the universe?

It was not the same case for Dean. They had all heard of his death months earlier, had all mourned, so they were overjoyed at his return. But like Sam, they all instantly sensed that he was changed. Far more changed than Jack was. Their ease grew with each passing moment, realizing that he was still Dean. His jokes were the same, his laugh as ready as ever, his smile just as warm. So before long, their time with him felt almost as natural as it had before. Almost.

There was still a barrier that they couldn’t surmount. A distance. Dean was no longer alive as he had been, and he belonged to another world now. He had become more, and in that there was a loss of that rough equality between them. The power, the understanding, the authority—they call suited Dean. But he had grown beyond an easy fit with his old life. So as the party wore on, Dean slipped into the kitchen on his own.

Sam found him there sometime later, a beer in his hand and an empty pie plate beside him. Dean looked up to greet him and smiled quietly. The muffled sounds of the party provided a soft backdrop. Sam sat down across from Dean. For a while neither spoke.

It was Sam who broke the quiet first. “It’s never gonna be the same is it?”

Dean shook his head. “No. But it’s good. Jack is the new God. He made Cas an archangel. Heaven’s in good hands. Rowena’s got Hell under her thumb. Things are maybe better than they’ve ever been for us. “

“But you’re not really back are you? You’re Death now. And you have to do that job. I feel like I’m losing you all over you again.”

“Come on, man. I’m not _gone_. Sure I won’t be here as much. You won’t see me every day. But you ain’t gettin’ rid of me that easy. I’ll be around. As often as I can.”

“How often will that be?”

“Well, I’m not alone in it. I’ve got Billie helping me. With a partner, I figure it doesn’t have to be a 24/7 gig.”

“You still won’t be here. Not like before.”

“No.”

“It’s just that Jack and Cas are going to be in Heaven. You’ll be off… wherever Death goes.”

“I have a library.”

“Right. And I’m just wondering… what do I do all alone in this big empty bunker?”

“Well first of all, it’s not empty. You’ve got Eileen. And it only stays empty if you want it to. Come on, Sam, you know what you’re supposed to do.”

Sam scowled. “Ar-are you saying I should have kids?”

“No! I mean if you want to, but that’s not what I’m talking about.” He leaned in, confidentially, comfortably. “The Men of Letters, both British and American, the hunters from Apocalypse World, you’ve been dancing around this for years.”

“You think I should try it again.”

“An organization of hunters. Based out of here. Led by you.”

“I don’t know. It didn’t exactly turn out well before.”

“Yeah because ancient demons and rogue archangels were out to get us. But now. Now you have the world’s largest collection of lore. You have more experience than anyone. And your family is, hands down the most powerful family in the universe. It’s the perfect time, and you’re the perfect person to do it.”

The absolute faith conveyed in Dean’s voice was hard to stand against. Sam nodded slowly, his thoughts spinning with new possibilities. It was true; the thought had been with him for years. With the small push from Dean he could see it all falling into line. A nationwide network of hunters. Unified, organized, supported. Protecting each other, saving people. A brotherhood. “All the best of both hunters and the Men of Letters.”

“And with all of those salty hunters in there to help you? Trust me, half of the hunters in this country would sign on with you today if you asked. And hey, if anyone gives you any trouble, you just tell them that you raised God, and your big brother is Death.”

Sam laughed. “Sure. I’ll do that.”

“Ah. Speaking of that.” Dean reached into his pocket and pulled something out. Opening his hand he revealed three silver rings. The engraving on each one matched the markings on Dean’s ring, but they were simple bands, each without a stone. Dean plucked one out and set it on the table between him and Sam. “That one’s yours.”

“What is this?”

Dean returned the other two rings to his pocket and sat studying his own ring. “Think of this like a signet ring. Or whatever they were called. You’d have a king and if he gave his ring to someone it meant that that person was under his protection or it showed that the king trusted him with authority or both.”

Under Death’s protection. Sam lifted the ring off the table tentatively. “What does it do?”

“As long as you’re wearing it, you’re very hard to kill. Not immortal. It won’t hold up to something like the Colt or an archangel. But short of that…” Dean shrugged. “Ground rules: only you can take it off once you put it on. You’ll still age. You’ll still die one day. And it was made for you, so you’re the only one it works for. Giving it away won’t do anyone any good. So don’t even think about handing it off to the first person who makes puppy dog eyes at you.”

“How did you-“ Sam stammered. The ring felt cold and heavy in his hand.

“Billie helped me make them. But it uh- involves a lot of pulled strings and loopholes and making exceptions. So in light of the bigger picture of all things, it’s really something I can only pull off for these three rings.”

Sam glanced at the pocket the other two rings had gone into. “And those-“

“Require another trip to deliver them.”

Sam didn’t press. His eyes were locked back onto the ring in his hand. “I don’t know if I can.”

“Sammy, listen to me. The only way I can do this, the only way I can go off and do what I have to do, is if I know that I can still have your back. If I know that you’re safe. The rest of the universe comes second to making sure that my little brother is taken care of.”

Of course he meant it. Dean’s life had been a one long series of acts proving how much he would throw away to keep his brother safe. Sam slid the ring onto his finger, and Dean gave a relieved smile. He leaned back again, his task accomplished. “And I mean it Sam, you need me, you call. I’ll be there.”

They sat there for several hours more. Sometimes in silence. Sometimes trading stories. Sometimes dreaming of the future—Dean’s new role, Sam’s hunters, all the changes Jack and Cas would make to Heaven. The boundary Dean had felt between him and the friends in the other room was not there with Sam. Sam was no stranger to Death. They were just brothers.

So they sat with each other until some sixth sense told them the sun was beginning to rise, and Dean stood up to leave.

Sam trailed his brother outside. Baby sat waiting on the side of the road. Sam’s eyes traveled over the car fondly, before he scoffed slightly and smiled at Dean. “You know, Death’s supposed to have a _pale_ horse.”

Dean grinned as he swung the door open and leaned on the roof. “Nobody’s touching my car.”

They lingered.

Sam shook himself. “Well. We’ve got work to do.”

Dean nodded. “See you soon, Sammy.”

He got into the car and started the engine, reveling in its familiar growl. The rocks crunched beneath the wheels as the car turned onto the open highway.

In a moment, Sam knew he would go back down into the bunker, back to Eileen and his friends, and he would begin the next chapter of his life. But for a while longer he stood and watched the Impala drive away, listening to the fading purr of the engine. And Dean watched Sam in the rearview mirror for as long as he could, even as he cranked the volume up and sang along as loud as he could to the music spilling out of the car and onto the never-ending road.


End file.
